


vista

by SapphyreLily



Series: Tendrils of a Dream [5]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Dreamscape AU, F/M, M/M, they go exploring!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 16:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13439070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: It's too hot, but this time it's your fault - you suggested an outing, and now you are stuck climbing, looking for a view promised to be the best.





	vista

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bianoyami (poeticalcreation)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticalcreation/gifts).



> I would like to credit GW2 for all the jungle imagery used here (I've been stuck in the Heart of Maguuma for too long :'D)

The humidity is a blanket you wear unwillingly, draped across your shoulders, hanging down and covering your body. Beads of sweat crown you, dotting temple to temple, across your forehead; some drops trickle from beneath your hair, sliding down your nape.

Your fingers dig into the tough, hairy bough beneath you; you grit your teeth as you find a foothold, haul yourself up.

Hot palms press against your skin, helping you, aiding you, pulling you up on the oversized vine until you squeeze the bough between your knees, trembling from the exertion. You slump forward, resting your cheek against the plant material – warm, from the heat of the day.

A careful hand brushes the hair out of your face – you are grateful. Still, you are tired, but you don’t really want to complain–

Are we there yet?

Ah, now you don’t have to. He’s done it for you.

You turn your head the other way, tilted up. You want to watch the confrontation, because it’s always amusing.

Almost, the silver-haired man says, arms folded. His gaze softens at the sight of you, sprawled across the vine. We can fly the rest of the way, if you want.

Oh, _do_ you want.

Not fair, the blond complains. He’s seated on the vine, legs hanging, swinging in the air, finger pulling at the neck of his shirt. We can’t fly.

Nor do we ever want you to. The mutter comes from your least favourite hawk – never mind that you only know _one_ hawk – where he stands, peering out from behind the silver-haired man. You’re enough trouble on fours, imagine if you had _wings_.

You can’t help it; you snort, smiling sheepishly at them when they look over at you. He does have a point, you tell them, and the blond looks so crestfallen for a second that you giggle.

I still love you.

He perks up at that, and then there’s a red-gold fox trotting over, nudging at your sweat-damp hair, poking your cheek with his nose. It’s cold and damp, and you startle a little at the feeling, before you smile.

You both hear the growl, but the fox’s tail only twitches – almost dismissive, in the way that he never looks back.

You push yourself upright, quickly. It’s better not to let them start a fight, especially when you’re so high up. You dare not look down. The forest floor is too far away – you’d rather not test the boundaries of your limited ability to withstand heights. You look up, meet the eyes of your most dedicated protector. His cocoa eyes are still hard with irritation.

Lead the way.

The silver-haired man blinks, irritation fading. He reaches for your hand, and the red-gold fox trots away, sitting and looking on sourly. The brunet takes your hand as well – the three of you stand, balancing on the uneven surface of the vine. It feels smaller than it did before.

See you at the top. It’s the grey-haired man who speaks, a hand clamped on the fox-form of his brother – holding him back? We’ll find a way up.

The silver-haired man nods, and then the two hands you were holding on to slide out from between your fingers, leaving you with a whisper in your ears. You close your eyes – against the height, but also to focus on their words.

_Feel the wind catch you, lift you up._

_Beat your wings, open your eyes._

_See what we see._

You feel them leave you, hear the swoop and flap of wings. You jump off in a dive–

And lift your arms, catching wind. It knocks the breath from you, and you move your arms instinctively, beating the air, soaring up. Your eyes open, taking in the emerald spread of the jungle below, the gold beams called sunlight cutting through the foliage, the painted shadows deepening in contrast to the light.

You can feel it now, the wind slipping through feathers, and you wonder how those got there. It’s a thought immediately pushed aside for later, as your eyes dart, seeking the backs of those who will guide you.

There’s a screech from above and ahead, but this time you hear clearly, and you move your wings, hurrying to join them.

_Come. Follow us._

Your eyes find them – an eagle with black-tipped wings, a smaller hawk with plumage the colour of sand. Or perhaps, that’s just the sunlight reflecting off him. You beat your wings – such an odd sensation, to be so powerful, so strong. Yet it feels so natural, and you rise to follow them.

They move swiftly, dodging through small gaps, rising above and above. It’s your first time, but you feel as if you’ve been doing it forever – your eyes spot their formation, the route they take – your muscles mimic and follow. It’s almost natural, how you find and forge your own path, how you dodge obstacles and roll out of the way. You feel as if you will never tire, exhilarated as you are – the wind feels so good, and everything is sharp and clear.

But you spot the plateau they are flying towards, and as you tuck your wings to dive, you feel almost disappointed. That your first flight is over. That you wouldn’t feel that rush of adrenaline again.

How is it that you can fly, anyway?

You want to land, but hit the ground and skid, roll, a gasp tearing out. The pain is sharp, fleeting. Then the shout comes, followed by footsteps thundering, hands brushing over your skin and helping you to sit.

Are you alright? What happened?

You look down at your arms, at the dirt and leaves smeared on them. The pain is gone, now, and you look back to them, smiling wryly. I thought about why it was I could fly.

There’s a huff of exasperation, and hands on your face, in your hair. Picking out bits of broken foliage, smoothing over skin, checking, probing for injuries. The more you think about it, the silver-haired man says, the less likely you are to succeed.

Your lips quirk up. Don’t think, just do?

Precisely.

There’s another cry behind you, and you turn to see your foxes – in human form – pulling themselves through a white tear, tripping and spilling and stumbling over to you. You barely have time to realise that they cheated when they arrive, words tumbling out.

What happened? Are you okay?

You laugh a little, at how their concern mirrors that of your birds of prey. Yes, yes. It doesn’t hurt at all.

Four pairs of eyes look at you, unbelieving. You roll your eyes. I’m fine.

They don’t seem convinced. The grey-haired man sits, reaching over – he pulls more foliage from your hair. The brunet joins him; there must be half the forest tangled in the nest on your head, if they are doing this. You are left staring up at the blond and the silver-haired man – they are having a staring match.

It was your responsibility to make sure nothing happened. The blond jabs the silver-haired man in the chest, his face contorted with a snarl. Look what happened!

You see red, eyes honing in on the offending digit pressed into the silver-haired man’s chest. But you can be reasonable. You can discuss this calmly. So you speak. It’s not his fau–

Your words are brushed away, spoken over. The blond goes on, ranting about how irresponsible and careless the silver-haired man is, to let such a thing happen to you. The other stares at him, mildly baffled – as if in shock that the other is scolding him. The look of confusion enrages the blond further, and he jabs him several more times, the force behind each jab – stab – growing and growing. If I was in charge, I wouldn’t have allowed this–

Stop it! You jump at him. Your irritation at being ignored and indignation for the silver-haired man has boiled over – it manifests as snaps at the blond’s finger. You miss, land effortlessly and turn to face him, hackles raised. A growl works its way out of your throat, your ears are pressed back against your skull – you realise what has happened.

Huh. First an eagle, then a fox. Today is full of new things.

You feel everyone staring at you – in shock? It’s the blond who speaks first, an indescribable look on his face as he examines his finger.

Huh. Kinky.

You think you hear the silver-haired man growl as you leap at the blond again – does his idiocy know no bounds? – but he steps back, and the red-gold fox faces you instead. He puts his head down on his paws, looking up at you, eyes wide. He lets out a small yip.

_I’m not really sorry._

You rush him, snapping at his neck, but he skips away, steps light. His tail wags, and you can’t believe it – he’s having _fun_ , after having the audacity to insult your fiercest guardian. For a mistake that _you_ made, not that he knows that. He refused to listen to your explanation.

_Come back here._

_Why? You can play with me!_

You leap at him again; he dodges. But a flying blur knocks him down, pins him, and you trot up to red-gold smothered by grey-brown, staring at his upside-down muzzle.

You bare your teeth. _Don’t touch my eagle._

A confused sound slips out of him. _I didn’t even get to._

_You jabbed him!_

_Bah. A small act._

Your jaws close around his neck to shake him. The scent and taste of fur choke you, but you won’t let go. You won’t, until he listens. _I made the mistake, don’t you dare take it out on him._

_He let you hurt yourself!_

_We were almost there! So I turned back a little early because I was thinking too much – it’s not his fault!_

He grumbles, a deep rumble that resonates through you. You still haven’t let go of his throat. _He still should’ve protected you._

 _You couldn’t have done better, so shut up._ It’s his brother who speaks – you see his muzzle lift, out of the corner of your eye. Your jaw clamps down a little more tightly as you feel the complaint about to be made, and it turns into a whine instead.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, geez! Let me go already._

_You’re not very sorry._

_No._

You let go of his neck to snarl at him, batting his nose. He whines and bucks his brother off, flattening himself to the ground to look up at you. _I’m never really gonna be sorry, so what’re you gonna do?_

Kick you off the plateau. Surprise overshadows anger and you blink. Look down at your hands. Back to the flat fox, who had perked up at your transformation but shrinks back under your gaze. Maybe a little free fall–

Nooo. The blond jumps up, grabs your hands. His expression pleads as his words do. Mercy!

You frown at him, but the anger has ebbed away. You likely do not look as fierce as you wish. Maybe I won’t.

His face brightens. Bless you, oh sweet and merciful friend–

You’re not off the hook, you warn. We look out for each other and we don’t throw false accusations. Get _along_ , you hear?

Yes, yes, yes, he mutters, yelping when you pinch his hands. Ow! I get it, I do! Stop looking at me like that!

Can I throw him off anyway?

Your lips twitch at the corners when you pick up the silver-haired man's murmur. Maybe later. Let’s look at the view first.

I want to help throw him off, you hear the brunet say, even as you rise and follow them to the edge of the cliff. I have grievances with him.

Get along, you remind as you pass by. You don’t look back, but you know the scowl he wears. It’s no secret that he doesn’t like the blond.

The grey-haired man offers his hand; you take it, stepping over small rocks to the edge of the plateau. You stop and squint – where did that mist come from? – trying to make out what lies beneath the veil.

Hands are on your shoulders, one pair, two – no, four. It’s almost unbearably warm – the heat of their bodies combined with the humidity. But you hear them whisper, and you think you might be able to bear it, if only for a few minutes.

_See what we see._

And you do.

Your vision expands, taking in the larger picture. Lush emerald treetops, speckled with varying shades of green. Sunlight sparkling as it reflects off leaves, as it trickles between layers of densely packed branches. Oversized and overgrown foliage twist on and around each other; stretching to the sky, crawling across the ground. Scenes you do not dare to believe – thick vines, like the beanstalk of yore; crumbling architecture from civilizations long dead. So much, in so small a space.

You see how widely the forest reaches, the never-ending horizon of jade. You see the life buzzing in each tier of the jungle – birds soaring, insects fluttering between boughs, animals chittering as they clamber up and down. You gasp aloud as you dive, your vision taking in everything that the wild expanse has to offer. Shadows deep, highlighted by sharp spears of light. The wild breath of the forest – the aged spirits that dwell in each perennial, glittering in the edges of your vision, looking on curiously before they fade. So much life, so much coexistence; layers upon layers of sights and wonders, all bundled in one place.

And suddenly you are snapped back into your body, watching the mist clear from the canopy. Feel the weight on your shoulders lift as the hands pull back.

You exhale softly, wondrously. Wow.

Was it worth it? The voices of two, the duo who get to witness such sights all the time, they echo in your ears. You turn back to face them, smiling, smiling – hoping your amazement and gratitude and awe can be communicated in one gesture.

(But you think you know; nothing you say or do could be enough. How could it be, when there is no name for what you feel – this expanding joy?)

(It’s so much, too much.)

Yes, you say. In the end, it is all you _can_ say. Yes, yes, yes.

You hold out your arms, but before you can move forward, you are swept up – caught around the waist, spun round and round, laughter echoing in your ears. Your own? His? You do not know.

You are set down; you have barely a second of reprieve before you are rushed – arms and bodies and a cocoon of sweltering _heat_ as everyone joins the celebratory pile. What you are celebrating, you know not.

But still you laugh and laugh, giddy over the thought that everyone is here, enjoying this moment together. Witnessing the magnificent view together. Sharing this instance of pure bliss. Unending, unadulterated joy.

Perhaps then you open your eyes to meet cocoa, scrunched with adoration. Perhaps you lean in a little, brush your noses together, press your lips together lightly. A smile stretches across your face at how soft and sweet and heart-meltingly warm you feel.

And even after, you get tugged back to meet gold eyes, a pout under a blond fringe. Perhaps again, you give in, and lean in to extract a kiss there. Perhaps you feel him press harder, tugging at your lower lip, nibbling and teasing and begging for more.

Perhaps, perhaps, and maybe. Though there is so much more to explore, right now you’re drunk on happiness and the dizziness that comes with too much laughter. Caught up in the moment, like amber trapping fossils.

Perhaps after, there would be more outings to mimic this one; climbing ridiculously tall trees and vines, exploring other swathes of jungle; finding increasingly breath-taking views to see and share.

And of course: ever more moments to be experienced and treasured, as you make more memories with the people you care about.

A prickle across your back; your body complaining about the heat. You sigh a little.

Perhaps the day will always be too warm, but you know yourself.

You’d rather be warm than cold.


End file.
